Farm on the M62: Feeling the full force of the storm - Jill Thorp
The weather has not been kind over the Easter weekend, leaving our kitchen floor covered in piles of sodden, shivering lambs. Storm Dave hit our house on the Saturday sending anything not firmly anchored down scattering down the lane and across the fields. By that evening and into the early hours of Easter Sunday we felt the full force of the storm as it hit us square on. We’ve had some pretty rough days up here over the years but I think for sheer wind ferocity, this last one will take some beating.
The noise outside was deafening, the howling circling the house, growing to a deep, guttural roar. It felt menacing, such was it’s strength and the house which has withstood nigh on three hundred years of everything the Pennines has thrown at it, shook and trembled. The trees outside thrashed violently from side to side, some lay almost on their sides before a brief lull allowed them to bounce back up tall. I fully expected damage when the storm eventually moved on and daylight broke. To my astonishment, little was out of place. Various buckets were scattered about and a few broken branches strewn across the yard, but no major damage.
The sheds had held tight to their roofs and we breathed a collective sigh of relief. This was of course short lived as the rain and golf ball sized hailstones soon arrived, blown on a new, strengthening breeze which soon descended on the lambing fields. We’re pretty well set up for these scenarios with large heater boxes and a good supply of towels, heat lamps and fan heaters. Reviving frozen bodies that have succumbed to the elements is part and parcel of life for hill farmers especially when the weather isn’t on your side. Thankfully, like so many things in life, the storm passed and brighter skies followed allowing us to once again enjoy the arrival of new life.
The little guy’s racing debut took place recently and thanks to the venue being reasonably local to us, Paul was able to attend. Downhill mountain bike racing is not that dissimilar to the many horse shows we attend. A number to collect, a course to walk and jumps to fly over. The size of the jumps and steepness of the course down through the forest, however, showed much more potential for injury than any of the working hunter pony courses we’d jumped.
As it turned out I wasn’t wrong and the crashes soon began. There was a collective “ooooh” and then “aaaaah” from the spectators followed by much grimacing as rider after rider misjudged a turn or a jump and landed with a sickening crunch on the forest floor. Most bounced straight back up amongst cheers and encouragement whilst a few took a minute to stagger back on their feet. Paul stood shaking his head; occasionally I could see his shoulders shaking as he chuckled to himself in disbelief. We stood on the edge of the forest, waiting for the little guy to come down, hoping for a good run and praying for no broken bones. I could hear a whistle being blown signalling a rider was on their way and then the cowbells started ringing as he tore down through the trees. I felt the familiar swelling of pride as I watched him navigate the tight, twisting turns, steely determination etched sharply into his face before the flood of relief as he safely crossed the finish line, unscathed.